Chapter 1201: A Conversation in the Backyard (Part One)

Seeing the four people before him looking so downcast, Jack got up, cleared their bowls and dishes, and shooed them out into the backyard.

It had been over 30°C during the day, but by nightfall it had cooled down. Their small house used by the Most Wanted team wasn’t far from the shore, and the sea breeze carried a hint of coolness.

The old Mexican gardener had done a good job maintaining the backyard—chili peppers and cherry tomatoes were ripening, the water spinach had just been harvested, eggplants were already fruiting, and the cucumber and loofah vines were a fresh, vibrant green on the trellis.

Jack casually picked a few cucumbers, rinsed them with water, and handed out two each. With a side dish of peanuts and sea salt, he set up a small table in the yard and finally brought out a jar of plum-soaked Hai Zhi Lan (a strong Chinese spirit).

“Okay, now, continue. What happened after that?”

Castle, intrigued by the cute little ceramic shot glasses that held only about ten milliliters each, eagerly downed one. The instant sting of the alcohol made him wince and grimace, but after imitating Jack and letting out a long breath, he got back to recounting the rest of the story.

It had already been about half a year since Beckett shot and killed Dick Coonan. Back then, the New York papers had run long articles praising the heroic female detective who had taken down a suspect trying to escape police custody with a single shot.

But roughly three weeks ago—while Jack had been out west dealing with the VX gas shell incident on Alcatraz—Beckett had suddenly received a mysterious phone call one day.

The voice on the other end was that of an elderly man who asked her to meet him at a café on Fourth Street to talk about her mother’s case.

“So you just obediently went to the café with only Castle, as the caller requested?” Jack looked at the listless Beckett, a tone of reproach in his voice. This incident had been included in the case files Castle had forwarded to him earlier.

At this point, Beckett was a shadow of her former self—the confident urban woman of New York was gone. Her brown hair was messy, and her beautiful eyes were swollen like two walnuts.

Kevin and Esposito, who had been silently nursing their drinks, looked up when they heard Jack’s words, seemingly about to defend their boss. But they quickly realized Jack wasn’t their superior and this wasn’t some internal affairs inquiry, so they lowered their heads again.

Both of them bore bruises. Esposito, especially with his burly frame, had a dark bruise circling his neck like a noose mark.

At the café, waiting for Castle and Beckett, was a man named John Lagrange, a retired NYPD detective who had originally handled the investigation into Beckett’s mother’s murder.

John Lagrange told them he had just been diagnosed with late-stage lymphoma and had at most six months to live. Before he died, he wanted to tell Beckett the truth about what had happened back then.

Over a decade ago, Beckett’s mother, Johanna Beckett, a civil rights attorney, was found murdered in a dark alley with multiple fatal stab wounds. At the time, Lagrange had been a homicide detective with the NYPD and was assigned the case, but due to pressure from certain individuals, it was officially written off as a gang-related incident.

For years—especially after Beckett gave up becoming a lawyer, enrolled in the police academy, and joined the NYPD—she had worked privately to uncover the truth behind her mother’s death.

Three others had died after her mother: two of her mother’s colleagues and a court clerk. Beckett believed all four had been murdered because of a particular legal case. But once she traced the clues to a court file her mother had requested shortly before her death, and found that file missing, her investigation hit a dead end.

Lagrange’s appearance was a breakthrough. According to him, everything went back to a case from nineteen years ago. But before he could reveal the details, a bullet from across the street struck him in the chest.

“And even at that point, none of you thought to notify me?” Jack gave a cold look to the three NYPD officers and the writer sitting in front of him.

In cases of sniper killings or serial murder, the FBI had full authority to intervene. Given Jack’s current relationship with the NYPD, he could probably even investigate a petty pickpocket without anyone questioning jurisdiction.

“I suggested we get you involved,” Castle muttered. “But since the victim was a retired NYPD detective, and you were off the grid at the time…”

Jack didn’t bother arguing about it. Instead, he turned to the two cops. “So you two discovered that the shooter was a professional hitman using the alias Hal Lockwood. Then, during the arrest attempt, a stun grenade let him get the jump on you, and you were taken hostage?”

Kevin looked ashamed. Esposito rubbed the bruises on his neck with lingering fear. “Yes. Luckily, Beckett and Castle arrived in time and managed to capture Hal Lockwood alive.”

Jack scrolled through the crime scene report on his phone, then put it down and slowly applauded.

“There were four men total, including Lockwood, all professional shooters. They were armed with automatic weapons—submachine guns and assault rifles. And our fearless Detective Beckett… charged in with a Glock and an unarmed writer, and managed to capture him alive? Remarkable.”

The sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable. Beckett’s face turned crimson, her ears flushing red.

Seeing that the point had been made, Jack let up and turned back to the duo. “You didn’t explain in the report why Lockwood chose to capture and torture you instead of just killing you. Why?”

The two looked at each other. Kevin replied, “He said his employer wanted to know how far we’d gotten in our investigation.”

“So how far had you gotten?” Jack poured another round of drinks for everyone.

Castle picked up the story again. “About nineteen years ago, then-patrol officers John Lagrange and Gary McAllister were members of an internal NYPD group known as the ‘Blue Templar.’”

“Wait a second,” Jack interrupted. “Did you say the Blue Templar?”

He was stunned. The last time he’d heard that name was over two years ago—Chapter 637, to be precise. Back then, he had just arrived in New York and helped Frank Reagan conduct an internal purge that uprooted the entire corrupt police fraternity from within the NYPD.